Three Fingers on One Hand
by Geeksisters
Summary: Paris, May 1625. Three lost souls meet by chance. None of them suspects yet that this is the beginning of a friendship, a friendship that will gain them the name "The Inseparables".
1. Athos

**The Musketeers**

 **Three Fingers on One Hand**

" _Do you know what friendship is?' he asked.  
'Yes,' replied the gypsy; 'it is to be brother and sister; two souls  
which touch without mingling, two fingers on one hand.'_

― Victor Hugo, The Hunchback of Notre-Dame

* * *

 **Book 1 – The Lost Ones**

 **xxx  
**

„ _Home, it's far beyond long lost horizons_

 _Home I'll never see_

 _For I'll be a prisoner of the road_

 _And I hold no key that will ever set me free_

Most humbly on my bending knee

 _I'm begging you to help me, please_

 _For I'm a prisoner of the road_

 _And I hold no key, I hold no key that will ever set me free"_

[Prisoner of the Road by Sivert Hoyem]

* * *

Paris, May 1625

Athos

The dimly lit room is full of people and stinking. Athos smells stale beer, unwashed bodies, rotten food and vomit. Being able to smell all this means that the room reeks even worse than he himself and that should almost be impossible.

It is loud, too loud and in addition somewhere in this den that is allowed to call itself tavern somebody roars with laughter. Athos shies away from the piercing sound and shrinks back farther into his seat at the wall, trying to melt into it.

The wine tastes like vinegar, but it's at least strong and so he doesn't mind.

He doesn't care about anything at all.

Not the sour reek or how the people cast curious glances at him, nor the brackish food. He doesn't care that at some point during this night they will put him out on the street where he won't be able to do more than collapse right into the dirt, just like the nights before. And even the noise he wouldn't mind if he just didn't have such a headache. But he actually doesn't mind this too, if the pain only wouldn't remind him that he still lived. Because this was not the plan, this was not the plan at all.

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His hand unconsciously goes to the chain around his neck. His fingers feel along its metallic length until they reach the oval silver locket and curl around it. He doesn't need to open it, its content already is ingrained on his retina. Forget-me-not. How should he ever do this? It's a miracle he is still in possession of the necklace. Every day he is doing everything in his power to spend the night in drunken stupor, not caring what death and devil do contrive for the time he is sleeping off his intoxication in one of the back alleys. But nothing happens to him.

Every morning he wakes up, still being alive. It's death himself that is protecting him, he believes. It is his presence. He is staying near to Athos and takes everyone that's coming close. The people around him seem to be aware of this and avoid him as if he had the plague.

His fingers tense around the locket, wishing for it to start blazing, to burn his skin so that he is able to feel something, something above this emptiness, more than the black nothingness inside of him. Forget-me-not. Never.

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"Go home!" somebody shouts in his ear and brings him back to the raucous, reeking room. On instinct he sinks deeper against the wall. He raises his eyes, just a little. It's the barmaid. A young, pretty girl, that doesn't fit here. She seems full of life and healthy. When she smiles no teeth are missing and she smiles at most of the guests – besides him, but that doesn't surprise him.

"Another bottle," he orders because the previous one is empty, or if it isn't it soon will be.

The barmaid shakes her head.

"You've had enough!" she remarks and for a moment Athos is too surprised to react. But then he remembers the plan and decides that he can't let this pretty girl stop him from following it through.

"You don't get to decide this!" he bellows, at least he believes that he does. But she isn't impressed and just rolls her eyes.

"That's just what I meant."

She turns away and Athos looks after her, thinking about stopping her, but it's not worth it. He has a goal and if he can't achieve it in this drinking hole then in the next one.

As he stands the world suddenly tilts to the left. He clings to the thankfully steady table and squints his eyes. After a moment it gets better.

He is glad now that it is so crowded, so he can't fall on his way outside. He uses the other guests as support, some mind, others don't, but none of them is hindering him. No one wants to start a fight and Athos is disappointed. He wouldn't be a hard opponent this evening. He would loose. It is tempting.

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Although it can't be that much fresher than inside, considering the filth in the street, the air outside is like a punch in the gut and Athos gets a good look at the dirt when he needs to brace himself against a wall in order not to fall into it face first. When he feels better, he looks up. The day draws to a close, but it isn't even really dark yet. He still has some time to complete his mission.

He takes some steps when he hears a noise from a back alley. He can't even fathom why he is turning to it. It's all the same to him what is happening there and he doesn't fully understand what he is looking at anyway.

Three men are standing in the alley, leaning over a fourth. One of them strikes out, flesh hits flesh, somebody is moaning, a stifled cry.

One of the three men suddenly turns to him.

"Back off, tramp!"

Athos suppresses the impulse to turn around and see at whom he is shouting. He still isn't used to being thus addressed. Although he can't really blame the man. He looks like a beggar. A rare glance into a clean window pane confirms it.

The man at the ground makes a gurgling noise and one of the thugs hits him again.

"Whats goin'on?" Without the noise from the tavern around him Athos can hear how slurred the words sound.

"That's none of your business. Bugger off, or you'll be next!"

Athos now notices that the men are wearing red uniforms. 'Red Guards' his mind supplies, 'the troupes of the cardinal'.

"Wha 'e dne?" Athos inquires pointing to the men on the ground. His words are almost unintelligible, but this time on purpose.

"That still is none of your business!" the man in red repeats. He is stepping towards Athos who also has come closer. If the soldier draws his rapier now he won't need more than a step to impale Athos.

'What is the idiot waiting for?', Athos is asking himself.

Meanwhile the idiot's two friends are kicking the man on the ground. One of them is holding a knife in his hand but doesn't seem to know exactly what to do with it. The man on the ground is making urgent panicked noises and Athos is slowly loosing patience.

He comes another step closer and hits his adversary in the stomach. The man seems earnestly surprised as he goes down on his knees with a moan. His two friends turn around and immediately let go of their former victim. The one not holding the knife draws his rapier.

'Finally!'

The kneeling Red Guard hasn't recovered yet and Athos adds a good punch on the nose. While the screaming man is busy holding both hands to his bleeding face Athos borrows his rapier.

The following duel is one-sided. The man with the knife has switched it for his rapier and Athos is mostly busy deflecting their combined attacks. The alley is narrow, the ground slippery and Athos is impeded by the amount of alcohol he did drink. His body is tired due to his excesses of the last weeks and he notices that the two assailants are forcing him to back up. He will loose.

'But that's what you wanted, you blithering idiot!', he thinks. And yet everything in him rebels against it.

When he feels the wall in his back he misses his rhythm. One of the opponents reacts instantly and jabs at him. Athos parries but the impact makes him back up farther and he hits his head on the wall. Seeing an explosion of colors the pain lets him stop breathing. His legs give in. He senses the blade coming down more than he sees it and raises his arm. A shot rings out, then only darkness.

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"He took on three Red Guards. It's a miracle that he could keep up as long. He saved Bréant's life."

There is a voice, loud, too loud, saying things he doesn't understand. He wants to protest but his tongue does not obey him.

"It's not yet safe to say Bréant will live. And that this one could even stand is miracle enough."

The second voice is lower, but sounds a little indignant. However for Athos this one is more likeable, it booms significantly less. But he still doesn't understand a thing.

"Just imagine how he fights sober!"

"I can't even imagine him being sober any time soon!"

Somebody laughs, but it dies down quickly.

"I'll leave you to your work then."

"I'd be obliged."

A door opens. Somebody sighs in the following silence. Athos thinks about opening his eyes, because he wants to know what is happening around him, but his eyes don't obey him any more than his tongue. Darkness has almost taken him again when he hears whispered words.

"You've made quite a mess of yourself."

The words still make no sense and so Athos lets the darkness surround him.

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When he wakes, the first thing he notices is that he is lying in a bed, a clean bed. That is new, at least since the last weeks. When he tries to sit up he realizes that his right forearm is bandaged and his head is aching as if a bell was ringing inside.

"Be careful with the stitches," somebody says and Athos looks around.

At the opposite side of the room a man is sitting in a chair, examining him with wakeful eyes. In one hand he is holding a harquebus, but it is pointed on the floor. The brown eyes look tired. Dark curls stick up from his head in disorder. Athos sees the weapons cleaning equipment on the table next to the man, as well as a book and a candle. It is obvious that his counterpart hasn't slept but spent the night otherwise occupied.

"Morning," Athos states and lifts his left hand to his pounding head.

"Your head just got a bump," the other comments, "but the wound on your arm needed stitches."

Athos nods in acknowledgment and proceeds with his plan to get up. Slowly he pushes his legs out of the bed. His head still throbs, but not worse than on other days.

"I recommend drinking a lot, water preferably. You should get the liquor out of your system, if you even want that."

"Thanks, doctor," Athos mutters, trying hard to make it not sound grateful.

The other man keeps a straight face, takes the cleaning rod and starts to clean the barrel of his harquebus. He doesn't get far until suddenly his hand starts to shake. He swears softly, lays cleaning rod and weapon on the table and interlaces both hands.

"So you are a right one to judge," Athos remarks. The other man rolls his eyes and shakes his head, but he doesn't answer, just presses his lips together.

"Did you really stitch me up with that hand?" Athos asks, puts both feet on the ground and stands up. The room sways a little and he gets sick.

"Why? Are you afraid it won't look pretty? Believe me, no woman will care about your arm. With your stench she won't even come near you!"

Athos can't deny that. He breathes deeply to calm his stomach. His hand instinctively searches for the locket on the metallic necklace around his neck and finds it. He notices the interested look from the other man, but no questions are asked.

"So for you it's not the liquor?" It's the best he can come up with, somewhere between conciliatory and diverting.

"Head wound," comes the reply. And the tone leaves no doubt that the man will use his harquebus – never mind his shaking hand - if Athos asks any further questions about it.

Athos mumbles an "I'm sorry", but the other man just shrugs it of.

"Where are my clothes?" Athos asks as he registers that he is standing in the middle of the room in just his smalls. In answer he is shown a pile of clothes on the second chair in the room.

"Those aren't mine," he remarks and earns another shrug.

"Yours' weren't to be saved."

With a sigh Athos reaches for the clothes when suddenly a question pops up in his mind.

"Where am I?"

The other man nods approvingly. "It took you ten minutes. So you have good experiences with strange beds?"

"Very funny." It's more a growl and seems to work.

"Garrison of the Musketeers," the answer comes quickly, "and since your next question will be how you come to be here: last night you prevented three of the cowardly Red Guard to kill poor Bréant. He is a butcher, was falsely accused of selling bad meat, his wife will be forever grateful and you won't ever need to pay for meat again. You've roughed up the three quite a bit. At the end your head collided with the wall, and your arm got a strike. You got lucky that two of us came by, otherwise... well."

'Otherwise I'd finally have some peace and quiet', Athos thinks and at once remembers that he hadn't wanted to die last night.

"The money and rapier you had with you are both at the captain's office."

"The rapier isn't mine."

The other shrugs again.

"It isn't a bad rapier."

Athos isn't really sure what to make of this. He is dressed now and just wants to leave when he becomes aware that he hasn't even introduced himself nor has he learned the name of the man that did stitch him back together. But why bother? He will leave now and won't see him again, so why go for politeness?

"Where is your captain?" he wants to know, not because of the rapier but because of the meager amount of coins left, and he ponders if they are even worth it.

The other man points through the window outside. Athos believes the garrison yard to be there, for a while now there have been sounds of clanging blades and the babble of voices coming up.

"Just ask your way."

"Thanks," Athos nods a goodbye, "and well... thank you."

"No problem. It isn't easy, by the way," the other adds as Athos is turning towards the door.

"What?"

"What you are trying to do..."

When Athos doesn't react he continues: "You reek as if you bathed in wine. You are bloated; red eyes, sallow skin – you haven't slept well for some time. You are sweating although it isn't more than ten feet from the bed to the door – You are trying to drink yourself to death. My friend, I tell you, that isn't easy. It takes time, a lot of time."

Athos still doesn't say anything. He could deny it. All those signs are still no proof. But why should he? It is true after all.

"My opinion probably is of no consequence, but since the others were impressed with your handling of a rapier, you could consider to – instead of throwing away your life – to become a soldier, maybe. I mean, death in battle is a lot more likely than through drink. And you could do something useful in between."

Athos reflects on this shortly, but only shortly.

"Would you want somebody like me to have your back?"

A shadow crosses the Musketeer's face, but the answer is different than expected.

"Bréant is still alive. That is more than others can claim. Loyalty sometimes goes strange ways ..."

 _Bréant is still alive._

Athos is sure that it wasn't intended, but it is those words he can't get out of his head.

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 _Bréant is still alive._

He did take her life; and now saved another. He doesn't dare to think about compensation, hell is all but certain for him, he is sure of that. But if he still has the opportunity to change something, to make a little difference in the world, after he stooped so low, to seize this chance?

'If I go now I am the monster she did see in me. Then this is everything that will be left of me.'

Does he really want this?

He wants to pay, pay for what he has done and what he didn't prevent. But does it hurt to be in drunken delirium all the time? It is only the moment he wakes that hurts. He needs to wake, he needs to do something. He needs to live on with his guilt and make amends, bit by bit.

 _Bréant is still alive._

With those words echoing in his head he knocks at the captain's door.


	2. Porthos, Part 1

Porthos - Part 1  


Flea's hair smells like apples and sunshine. He presses a little closer into her, buries his nose in her red locks. A beam of sunlight shines through a rent in the curtains and warms his back. He closes his eyes and tries to go back to his dream. There had been a lake and grass under his bare feet. He has no idea how his head has come up with those images, he can't remember either, but it had been nice. The sounds around him don't let him go back to sleep, though, as the Court of Miracles sings its daily song. Too many people and too little room, Porthos can't remember when he last experienced silence. The Court of Miracles isn't even quiet at night, in the darkness lamentations are uttered more then ever. He listens to the goings-on with closed eyes: the laughter of children, an arguing couple, somebody crying, something crashing, thundering footfalls.

"You're awake," a voice next to him states and then Flea moves in his arms. Her finger wanders from the tip of his nose to his left eyebrow, where it softly touches his scar. It tickles and he scrunches up his face.

"You are awake," she repeats and he finally relents and opens his eyes. She smiles at him, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

"We havin' plans for today?" she asks.

"Charon wants to discuss somethin'. No idea, what he's..." he doesn't speak further since she is already nodding.

"Be careful."

He is amazed, wants to ask how she conceived it, but on the other hand, this is about Charon and him, so he knows how she conceived it.

"Aren't ya looking after me?"

Flea is shaking her head. "Claire's baby will come anytime now. So I'll stay with her in case it's today."

"Good," he grasps a strand of her hair and lets it slide through his fingers.

"When do you need to go?" she asks and he leans in to her until his nose touches her cheek.

"Not soon," he whispers in her ear.

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"PORTHOS!"

He hasn't reached the bottom of the stairs yet, when a little bundle on two legs rushes at him and tackles him from the side with such speed that he almost topples over. He reaches for it in the last moment and lifts it up.

"Not so fast, tiny tot!"

"I am no tot!" protests the bundle in his arms and kicks at him, so Porthos holds it a little farther away.

"Yeah, you are. And now keep still or else I'll not let you down."

The bundle stops moving immediately and a pale face with piercing blue eyes appears from under the blue hood that belongs to a far too big cloak.

"No tot," it says with a face so unnaturally grave that Porthos involuntarily starts to laugh.

"Yes, Bastian, you are a tot. A cute tiny tot."

Bastian seems bitterly disappointed, but since he isn't fidgeting anymore Porthos lets him down. He ruffles through the boys totally disheveled hair, that normally is black but now looks almost gray so covered in dust is it. He wonders where the hell the boy has been and pushes him towards the stairs.

"But never mind, I still like ya fine," he adds and thus coaxes a half smile out of the kid.

"Yeah, right!...Will you train with me later?" Bastian wants to know and follows Porthos down the stairs.

"You still wanna trash the bigger boys?"

Bastian rolls his eyes. "It's not like that..."

"Really? So ya didn't steal that ham from Lemart, under his very nose?"

Bastian doesn't even turn red. "He wasn't supposed to catch me. If Isabelle hadn't thrown the chair in my way..."

"What if I hadn't dragged Lemart away from you?"

Bastian shrugs his shoulders. "Henri was hungry," he mutters and Porthos knows that this ends any further discussion. Henri is Bastian's little brother, next to his sick mother the only family the boy has. But still...

"Next time come to me, okay?"

The face of the boy grows dark and if the crease on his forehead is any indication of his stubbornness Porthos could as well talk to Lemart's ham instead.

"I don't need any charity. I just want to learn how to fight for my family," Bastian spits.

They have reached the bottom of the stairs now and Porthos faces the boy, looking him over from head to toe. In the cloak, that once belonged to his father, he looks like a fledgling fallen out of the nest, fallen into a world that is too big and unfriendly for him. Although he almost is ten years old, Bastian is small and lean, his pale skin makes him look frail and vulnerable. Porthos knows that the boy is fast, and if he is throwing something he rarely misses his target, but considering fistfight or even worse, wrestling somebody to the ground … Porthos sighs audibly.

"If you insist..." He remembers the last training session and that he had been busy all the time trying not to hurt the boy accidentally.

Bastian beams. "Great! You're a real friend!"

Porthos snorts. "Somebody has to make sure you're not killing yourself before ya turn eighteen!"

Bastian shrugs. "Don't worry, you don't need to look after me that long. The Musketeers already recruit at fourteen."

"Musketeers?"

"Yes, the King's Guard!" The boy is all smiles.

"And they'll take you in because of...?"

"Because I'm fast. And I can throw a knife from fifty feet and hit the middle of a target … and because you're showing me hand to hand combat. You think you could also teach me how to fight with a sword?"

Porthos is too dumbfounded to even think about this question.

"Bastian, the King's Guard only accepts nobles. Even if you hit the bull's eye in the dark..."

"I hit the bull's eye in the dark!"

"... nobody cares."

"Oh yes! The Musketeers are about honor, not money or title. It is about protecting the king and country!"

Porthos struggles not to laugh, but he manages, because Bastian is taking this so serious.

"And why do you wanna protect the king, of all people? What's he ever done for you?"

'What has he done to keep your brother from starving?' is the question he doesn't voice.

He can see how all excitement vanishes from the boy and now he looks even smaller than he already is.

"Nothin'," he quietly admits. "But father never gave a damn about honor. Only ever gambled, got drunk and ranted over the king. And then he was dead. Stabbed in the back. Probably even deserved it..."

'Don't say this!' Porthos wants to object. But he knows the story of Bastian's father, the whole story, and it isn't like him to lie to children.

"It's just that I have nothing, Porthos! I can't do anything special, have no money, no title. Where shall I go? What shall I do? Steal and lie for the rest of my life? People doing that don't live long... and what shall become of Henri then?

I want to go somewhere? I want to do something that is making sense. And I can't think of something better..."

The boy looks at him questioningly, as if he is waiting for Porthos to contradict him, as if Porthos would have a better plan. But he has none.

'Steal and lie for the rest of my life?'

Porthos suddenly can't ignore a foul taste in his mouth.

He sighs. He still doesn't believe that any Musketeer will be interested in a boy from the Court of Miracles. But since he doesn't have a better plan he doesn't need to dissuade Bastian from following his. And a few more muscles couldn't hurt the boy either. "If that's so, we shouldda start the training soon. Don't think the Musketeers have need of such a weakling such as you."

Bastian makes a face.

"I am no...," but Porthos doesn't let him finish and instead ruffles his hair even more than it already is.

"Never mind, kiddo! See ya later, I needa go now!" He leaves the kid at the stairs and goes looking for Charon.

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After a few steps he already notices himself thinking less of Charon and the coming day than of the past. He feels the weight of the sword at his belt that he otherwise just ignores. He hasn't thought of the man who gave it to him for a while now. 'The Soldier' he was called in the Court of Miracles because he wore and old uniform worn to threads and refused to give his name. Even for Porthos he always was just 'the soldier'. His right leg had been a wooden peg underneath the knee joint. But that didn't stop him from dancing around Porthos with surprising speed while simultaneously beating him with a practice sword.

"Your fighting style is lousy!" he had heard a voice next to him one day. There had been a fight between two groups of beggars that had turned to violence. Porthos had tried to mediate but in the end had found himself right in the middle of the two groups that were armed to the teeth. Without another alternative he had drawn his sword and tried to separate the conflicting parties with as less bloodshed as possible and hopefully without being hurt himself in the meantime.

"Why? Went quit' well, didn' it..." he asked and turning around to the voice found the soldier, his weight on the uninjured leg and with a smug grin on his lips.

"Four dead and you are wounded," he pointed to Porthos' side, where a blade really had left a deep cut, "you call that good?"

Porthos shrugged his shoulders, only a bit, to go easy on his wound.

"Could be worse."

"But it could have gone better," the soldier replied.

"Really?" Porthos was thinking about simply leaving. His wound was throbbing and he wasn't in the mood for a conversation.

"I watched you," the soldier went on, "you are relatively esteemed here. And it can't be easy to earn respect here amongst people who are fleeing from authority." His words hung like questions in the air.

"'m here long enough. Was born here." Porthos murmured. He really wasn't in the mood to discuss his life with this man. "And I'm abov' no-one."

The soldier shook his head. "No you're not, but still the others listen to you..."

Porthos shrugged his shoulders again. "Yeah?" He didn't have the feeling that this would take him somewhere.

"You should make something of it," the soldier explained.

"'nd what shall this be?"

"It will be easier for you to maintain order when you can also handle a sword."

At this point Porthos had laughed. "What order, my friend? You're at the Court of Miracles!"

"But even beggars and thieves have a king..."

That was true, but it wasn't him. "What? You mean to tell me that...?"

"Let me teach you a bit. Some tricks, a bit of technique, your footwork isn't even too bad..."

"And for what?"

"For you to be able to protect yourself better."

Porthos snorted. "Did that fairly well 'til now."

Porthos wasn't convinced that day but the soldier had stayed adamant. It took one year and a good amount of training lessons for Porthos to understand what the soldier had meant: to outwit the world and give a chance where there had been none.

Porthos isn't sure that he made good use of his chance. His word is worth something in the Court, but that doesn't mean that he can control anything. Fights still end bloody, children still die of hunger and his life still consists of stealing and lying.

He has to think of his talk with Bastian. The boy also would deserve a chance, maybe he would do better than Porthos.

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"That's a stupid idea," Porthos declares and realizes that he has said this sentence a couple of times today already.

"Flea likes it," comes the prompt answer. Porthos doubts it, but Flea isn't here, she can't explain her opinion.

"Still..." He wants to continue, to make his point, to clarify his arguments: It is madness to ambush the food delivery for the King's Court, at full daylight to boot, because they will never escape undetected. The wagon will be guarded. To steal the wagon will be impossible, since the Red Guard and the Musketeers Bastian so adores never will let them bring it all the way to the Court of Miracles, and they don't have a place to hide it here anyway. But without the wagon they have no means of transporting all the food.

But Charon interrupts him: "I don't wanna hear it anymore!"

"But it doesn't work!" Porthos tries again one more time.

"So you want the people to starve?!" Charon accuses him and Porthos bites his lip.

'Of course not, but this won't help them either.' That would be the right answer. But he sees the mixture of hunger and desperation in the eyes of the youths Charon has gathered and keeps silent. They all have family. You can't convince them that taking food that is on its way to people that are not going hungry isn't an option. You just can make the best of a bad job.

"Okay, let's do this," Porthos agrees and hopes that at least no one will die because of this madness.


	3. Porthos, Part 2

_Thanks to all for reading and reviewing. This next part will be intense. So I would advise to keep your cuddly cushion close._

* * *

Porthos - Part 2

He should have known that it was a mistake. Strictly speaking he had known. At least it is over fast. As anticipated the wagon is guarded and the guards – Porthos recognizes the pauldron of the Musketeers – are clearly prepared for an attack. When the first of the potential thieves goes down with a bullet in his leg, Porthos can see the other youths making off hastily. 'So much for honor among thieves' he thinks while dragging the injured into a house entrance, undetected in the general chaos, and presses a hand on his mouth to muffle the screams. The inhabitants already have barricaded themselves behind the door. Nobody wants to get involved in a fight with weapons.

A pair of green, too young eyes give him a panicked stare. Pierre, he remembers the boys name. Pierre, seventeen, two sisters, no parents. He sighs inwardly. The wound itself is not serious, but it bleeds and needs stitches. With the limited resources of the Court of Miracles even such a wound is a game of luck. If it gets infected Pierre is dead.

"It's okay. Don't worry, I'll get you outta here," Porthos murmurs as low as possible. He hopes that Bastian's Musketeers are busy doing something else than to search for the wounded, because his hiding place isn't really good.

Cautiously he peeks at the street and sees that the guards still got one of the boys. Porthos recognizes Pepe. Three guards surround the youth that looks as if ready to call for his mother any moment now.

"Damn!" Where was Charon anyway?

Porthos signals Pierre to be quiet and cautiously makes his way towards the street.

"Who is your leader?" he hears one of the Musketeers ask. Pepe doesn't look as if he is able to understand any language right now.

"Who is..?" the Musketeer starts to try again but is interrupted by one of his comrades laying a hand on his shoulder.

"Let him be, Bertrand. Look at him, he's almost dying of fright."

"And now?" Bertrand wants to know. "Do we take him with us?"

"How do you want to do this? Bind him to the wagon?"

Bertrand looks as if contemplating this and Porthos feels sick.

"He isn't even fourteen," Bertrand's comrade continues, "do you want him to loose a hand just because somebody else has instigated him to participate in this idiocy?"

Pepe turns even paler, if this is actually possible, and starts to tremble.

"No...? But... what do we tell the Captain?"

The Musketeer shrugs. "Nothing's stolen, and we're in time. I wouldn't report anything amiss. Less paperwork this way."

Bertrand doesn't seem convinced. "Half of Paris knows that we've been attacked by now."

The other man waves this aside. "People always talk and that the Court of Miracles is full of criminals is also known to everyone. Let the politics deal with it, I don't see a reason to hold the boy."

Both look to their third comrade who hasn't said anything until now and just seems bored.

"Any objections, Aramis?" Bertrand wants to know.

The so addressed rolls his eyes. "I thought you two would never stop arguing." He steps aside and gives the boy a nod. Pepe is unsure at first, but at Aramis' second nod he starts to move and seconds later disappears along the street.

"Now can we?" Aramis asks. "If I have any more time to think about the fact that I am guarding a wagon full of flour and apples I'll start to doubt my mission!"

A short time later the Musketeers and their wagon are out of sight and Porthos turns to Pierre. The boy has lost a lot of blood, his eyes are half closed and he is almost unresponsive. His face is covered in a sheen of sweat. A muted whimper comes over his lips when Porthos picks him up and carries him home.

On his way there he mentally practices the words that he is going to throw at Charon once Pierre is taken care of. And maybe he'll also find some objects to throw too.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When he enters the Court he immediately knows something is wrong. It is too quiet, way too quiet. At first he thinks that this is because of the failed raid, that maybe there have been more injured than he noticed, but then he hears the wails. In this unusual quiet they shrill in his ears and cut at his innards. He recognizes the voice of a woman, somewhere underneath all this inhuman amount of despair. The boy in his arms suddenly turns heavy, but somebody comes and takes Pierre away from him.

"He's wounded," Porthos mumbles the obvious. "Somebody needs... needs to..."

A howl again, Porthos forgets what he wanted to say although it had been so important.

"I'll care for him. You go to Beth, it is bad. She doesn't let anybody near her, maybe you."

Beth, Bastian's mother. Hearing her name his mind conjures an image, a terrible image. No. No, that was nonsense. He did see the boy not even three hours past. He had been hale and hearty then. And Henri? Henri also was doing good, as far as Porthos knew.

His feet carry him farther through the alleys of the Court. He's getting closer to the screams, each is sending a painful tug through his body.

Finally he sees the small crowd in front of a door. They at once step aside when they see him.

At first Porthos can't grasp what he is seeing. It is too unreal, too many colors, too much red. That can't ...but it is. Beth is perched on the door sill, in her arms, half dragged onto her lap, lies Bastian. Porthos recognizes him by his hair and the remains of the too big blue cloak. Not by his face. There isn't a face anymore.

"What happened?" a croaking empty voice asks the question and it is only after a few moments that Porthos recognizes it as his.

"Lemart," somebody whispers. "He stole from him again."

Beth wails again and Porthos reminds himself that he can kill Lemart later, breaking every bone in his body, just like he obviously did with Bastian. With a child. A child ten years old, whose younger brother was hungry.

He slowly walks to Beth and kneels next to her.

"We should get him inside," he suggests gently.

Beth shakes her head.

"Henri... Henri is inside."

Porthos nods. He hopes the little one hasn't seen his brother like that. And he never should.

"Then we'll get him to my place, okay? Can I carry him?" He reaches out his hands, showing Beth that he is ready to take the boy when she let's him go.

"I can't," she whispers, "I can't."

"Doesn't matter. We have time." He stays kneeling at Beth's side, who is crying quietly now and rocking Bastian on her lap.

"Beth, is somebody with Henri?" Porthos asks and she stares at him wide-eyed. Then she shakes her head and he can see the panic in her eyes.

"No problem, no problem," he reassures her, "but we should let somebody look after him. Shouldn't we? Arianne can do this, don't ya think?"

Arianne is on the spot instantly. Since Beth needs to move away from the door for Arianne to get to Henri, Porthos seizes the chance to carefully take Bastian from her arms. Beth follows him up the stairs to the room he is occupying with Flea.

The following hours belong to the longest in Porthos life. They wash Bastian's body, wrap him in sheets. They cover his face, what's left of it. Porthos memorizes every wound on the boy's body, every cut, every bruise. And when he has the feeling he isn't needed anymore he makes his way to Lemart, to pay him back every hit on Bastian's body one to one.

But he doesn't get far. Half way there Charon is holding him back, having gathered his common of late bodyguard of youths around him.

"What do ya want?" Porthos asks.

"To save you from a mistake, my friend."

Porthos isn't sure if he should rather laugh or hit him.

"Meaning?"

"Bastian has stolen from Lemart. Lemart has punished him. There's no reason for revenge. The score's even."

"Even? Bastian is dead!"

Charon seems abashed. "I'll admit the punishment was..."

"Save your breath and let me through!" He wouldn't let Lemart get away with this, not as long as he was Porthos DuVallon.

"Porthos, I can't allow this. You took a great fancy on this boy, I get it, but you have no right to revenge him. He has stolen and that's what he got for it."

"That's a load of rubbish, Charon. We all are thieves. What did you wanna do with the wagon for the palace today? To borrow it including its contents?"

"That's something different! Bastian has stolen from one of us!"

Slowly Porthos realizes that Charon is serious about this. That he really accepts Bastian's death as given. As something that happens if you don't play by the rules. Rules that aren't even officially existing. Rules that Charon just established.

"Lemart isn't one of us! I never saw him go hungry! He's always enough to eat, but from where exactly? If he really was one of us, he would've shared with Bastian."

Charon smirks, almost gloating.

"We can't save everybody, Porthos, some are just too weak."

Charon wants to continue but a fist hits his chin. Porthos doesn't have a system or a plan. He just hits hard. Everything he reaches he drives a fist into. Some of it isn't bodies but a wall or a beam and that is what dooms him. His right hand aches and can't move as fast as it should. The rage and hatred in his head are clouding his mind. He can't see clearly what is happening around him and he is outnumbered, Charon and his combatants have an easy time of it.

Something hits his head and everything goes dark.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When he wakes up he notices that he hasn't moved. His opponents have left him at the same spot he went down. With an effort he gets up. His head hurts, his hands ache, as does his back. He feels like he has had a crash with a carriage. But when he takes some cautious steps he notices with relief that nothing seems broken. Even the ache in his back lessens with some further steps.

He wants to go to Lemart, immediately, before anybody could warn the bastard. The windows of Lemart's living quarters are dark, but that is to be expected as it is still the middle of the night. Most people in the Court of Miracles are asleep. He bangs against the door, yells Lemart's name and is almost attempting to kick in the door when a voice behind him stops him.

"Lemart is gone, Porthos. Save your breath and strength!"

It is Charon.

"What 've you done?" Porthos wants to know.

"Saved you from a huge mistake."

That couldn't be true. It was impossible that Charon was protecting Lemart. Lemart had beaten a boy to death. A boy that could have been Charon or Porthos himself. Couldn't anybody see this?

"What are you going to do now?" Charon asks when Porthos fails to say something. "You're gonna kill me instead?"

Confused Porthos stares at the dagger that suddenly appears in Charon's hand. They are brothers. Or at least they had been. Brothers in spirit. Although they don't always agree in opinion they are surely far from letting weapons speak for them.

"Of course not," he says. He just would like to understand it, that's all. Because he doesn't get it.

"Why?" he asks therefor and Charon just shrugs. The dagger is gone from his hand and Porthos asks himself if it ever was there.

"When you're able to think straight again you 'll see I did the right thing."

With those words Charon turns around, but suddenly Porthos is missing the strength to follow him.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He doesn't stay in the Court of Miracles. There is no place between those walls that doesn't remind him of Bastian. And for the first time in a long time he doesn't know where to go. He wanders the streets, looks at the sunset from Pont-Neuf and finally, with a grumbling stomach, reaches a little market. In an unobserved moment he is able to take a pastry from one of the stalls. But when he bites into it he sees Bastian's battered face. Instantly he needs to gag and the pastry falls to the ground.

He carries on wandering the streets of Paris at random, his feet still not willing to turn back to the Court of Miracles. Then he spots an excited crowd gathering around a man with a parchment, who is reading a proclamation. Porthos can't understand what he is saying since there are too many people in between. But when the crowd starts to disperse he is able to pick up some words. Obviously the Musketeer Regiment is looking for recruits and is hosting a selection procedure, today at noon at the garrison.

At first Porthos thinks that the people are making fun of him. It is impossible that today of all days... after the... of all things...

"There was some kind of incident," one of the bystanders explains, an old, slightly bend over man with gray hair and a dirty looking coat. "Many died. Has to be this way, otherwise they would never look for common people to join them," he mutters and then spits on the street and grins. "But as the saying goes: one man's joy is another man's sorrow..." The man looses himself in further explanations of the royal regiment, but Porthos isn't listening anymore.

Again he sees Bastian's face, but this time it is lit with joy as he explains his plan to become a Musketeer. It is a sign, Porthos thinks, it has to be one. It is a crazy idea, he knows it, but still...

He can't hit a target from fifty feet away in the dark, but with a sword he is at least better than most of the people he knows. He can try. For Bastian whom this chance was denied. What would the boy think of him otherwise?

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When some time later he is standing in the yard of the garrison, he has a foreboding that this isn't a good idea, strictly speaking it is one of the worst ideas he's ever had. He is out of his element and he can see it confirmed in the way the others look at him. His looks, his clothing don't belong. The invitiation to this selection procedure might have been for the common people but the attendees really look privileged.

Porthos tries to ignore the raised brows and turned up noses, and really it gets better. His first opponent is sufficiently suprised when Porthos manages to disarm him with his sword. It is relatively easy for him to wrestle down one his next opponent, but then they hand him a gun. His opponent from hand-to-hand combat, who is still beating the dust from his pants, stops and amusedly observes how Porthos stares at the gun as if hoping it would tell him how to hit a target with it. It isn't that he hasn't held one in his hands before, but he rather had used it to bash his opponents with the handle.

He knows how to fight, knows strategy, how to defend himself, to survive, but at a place such as the Court of Miracles firearms just don't make sense. They are expensive, unreliable if not cared for constantly, and you need gunpowder to load them, which is also expensive and instantly unusable if it gets wet. In Portho's opinion firearms are as good in a street fight as a rapier in hand-to-hand combat. But there is no sense in telling anybody around here.

But suddenly one of the Musketeers stands in front of him, a slight grin on his mouth, and Porthos narrowly avoids to stare. He recognizes him and if the glint in the eyes of the other man is any indication he also is recognized. Aramis. That's his name. Aramis, one of the Musketeers that prevented the raid of the food transport yesterday. Why was he here again? To get himself arrested?

"Had a rough night?" Aramis asks and now Porthos is staring at him open-mouthed.

"Because of the eye," Aramis adds and points at Portho's face. Just now it dawns on him that he obviously is carrying some signs of the fight with Charon.

"Ahem...," Porthos tries to answer and fails.

"That's a good sword," Aramis says instead and points to the schiavona at Porthos' belt. He must have been watching him fight, how else could he assess the quality of his weapon. But that would mean that is cover is blown for quite some time. So why is he still an attendee of this competition?

"Can I ask where you got it?" The question may be polite but Porthos can easily hear the firceness behind it.

"It was a gift," he explains.

"Really?" Aramis looks directly into his eyes, probably to search for the lie and finding nothing he shrugs his shoulders.

"Well, then! I suppose you've loaded a gun before..."

Loading. Right, that was the first thing to do.

He tries to remember how that is supposed to work. But thankfully it is not that difficult. First the gunpowder, then the ball and then cock the flintlock mechanism. When Porthos finally aims at the target he can hear a murmured voice next to him.

"Solid stand. A little bit to your rigth. Less." A sigh. "Just shoot."

The ball doesn't miss. Not totally at least. And surprisingly he isn't the worst at the shooting range.

The selection procedure goes better afterwards. He doesn't know who has had the idea to let them throw knives, but even not being as good as Bastian he is the best here by far. Continuously he is looking for Aramis or a group of Musketeers coming to arrest him, but the Musketeer seems to have vanished and until now nobody came to him with chains and a penalty order.

When the competition is over and Porthos, not being able to stand still and wait, is trying to hasten time by running up and down along the stables, he sees Aramis, Bertrand and the third Musketeer, obviosly being in the middle of a heated discussion. He retreats as far as possible into the shadow of the stable wall, not too far to hear what the men are discussing.

"I am saying it, he was there!" Bertrand states.

"I didn't see him," the third Musketeer objects. "Aramis?"

Aramis shrugs. "Not that I can remember."

"We have to tell the Captain!" Bertrand demands

"What are you going to say to him?" Aramis wants to know. "That at the raid which didn't happen because we didn't report it, somebody was there who maybe is one of those that are trying out today?"

"But we can't simply..."

The third Musketeer is shaking his head. "I also don't think it likely that he is one of them. I mean, who would be so stupid to go to a garrison full of Musketeers afterwards?"

Porthos had to agree with him.

"But what if it is one from the Court!"

"Oh, he is from the Court," Aramis counters.

Bertrand stares at him open-mouthed.

"He has experience in fighting, but not as a soldier. His handling of a blade is surprisingly tolerable, he has no idea of shooting, but therefor a lot of fighting spirit," Aramis explains as if it was the most obvious if anything. "And I am reasonably sure Treville already knows."

"And someone like him shall become one of us?"

Aramis shrugs. "That's Captain Treville's decision."

"But Aramis, you can't trust him! He isn't even French!"

"Oh, really? And how do you know that? Did you ask him?"

Bertrand rolls his eyes. "Oh, come on! That's obvious!"

When none of the others responds Bertrand exhales with an irritated groan, "well, he's a mongrel!"

Musketeer three snorts, amused. Aramis doesn't say anything.

"Don't tell me that doesn't make a difference," Bertrand demands, "how can he protect King and Country if he isn't even a real Frenchman!"

"My mother is Spanish," Aramis counters and sounds as if he rather would like to use more than words. "So in your eyes I am not really French as well? And if you have forgotten, the Queen is Spanish, too! I am sure she will be delighted to hear your theories. Any other questions?"

"That's something different!" Bertrand defends sharply, but Aramis is shaking his head. The third Musketeer takes Bertrand's arm.

"Come now, Bertrand, leave it alone... You're risking your neck with careless talk."

Both leave Aramis, who stands still a moment longer, as if he is thinking about something. When he finally leaves he softly says, as if to himself, but loud enough for Porthos to hear, "He didn't leave his injured friend behind. Everybody who does this deserves a chance."


	4. Aramis, Part 1

_About two weeks later_

Aramis, Part 1

"You'll practice shooting with Aramis!"

Athos and Porthos look at each other from the corner of their eyes and stifle a sigh. The other two getting the order, Maurice and Baptiste, aren't as clever.

"Any objections?" Treville bellows and all stare at the floor.

"What are you still standing here for, then?"

A little hesitantly the group starts to move.

"That's gonna be a fun morning," Porthos mumbles when they are a safe distance away from Treville.

"M hm."

"At least you're a good shot."

"Well, and he rather likes you," Athos replies and Porthos looks stunned.

"What makes you say that?"

"You don't get the look."

"What look?"

"The one that says that he believes you to be too incompetent to even tell the handle apart from the muzzle."

"You don't get that look either..."

Athos shrugs.

"No, but I'm quite a good shot."

They arrive at the shooting range and the talk ceases. Porthos isn't sure if it will go well for him. It is an unusually hot day for the end of May. Aramis is sitting on a seat in the shadow next to the shooting range, feet on a second seat, hat pulled down low in his face. He makes no sign that he is aware of them.

"Ahem... Aramis?" Athos asks.

"Pistols, armory, twenty shot. Be back in ten minutes. Don't forget the powder," comes the reply, a little muted by the hat.

Baptiste snorts audibly. "I can't believe it," he mutters.

Aramis moves his hand and pushes up his hat. He looks at them and Porthos sees the dark circles under his eyes. He has never seen Aramis without those dark shadows and asks himself if the other man ever sleeps. He knows about the rumors they tell about him, alleged womanizing, but he isn't sure how much of that is true. Aramis doesn't look like he is spending the nights with pleasures. Porthos rather thinks that there seems to be a darkness around the other man, that comes to life at night and that sometimes turns him into an obnoxious fellow during daytime.

"Bring one for me, too, Baptiste! Thank you," Aramis now says, then pulls the hat back down.

Baptiste's face turns red.

"He did say 'thank you'. So he is in a good mood," Athos murmurs so low that only Porthos can hear him.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It has been two weeks since they are training. Porthos still can't believe it, and actually doesn't really want to, because there is still this voice in his head saying this can't be real. That he'll wake up and everything has been a dream. It is a trial period, Captain Treville has made sure that every recruit is aware of this. And then there's also the minor issue that – if he should pass the trial period – he needs to acquire his own gear. But he has decided to think about that when it becomes necessary. Right now he doesn't think that this will ever happen.

He is aware that he hasn't the same social status as the others, there is his upbringing, the color of his skin, but officially that doesn't matter. His handling of a rapier and guns improve fast and he is able to compete with the others. Obviously there is some kind of warrior gene in him, as soon as he has memorized the technique the implementation in combat comes almost of its own volition.

So officially he slowly turns into a Musketeer. But unofficially he nevertheless can read in most of the others' eyes that he doesn't belong here. Athos isn't one of them, but that just means that he is acting just as glum and reserved towards him as he is to anybody else.

And then there is Aramis.

Thanks to him he is here and he hasn't forgotten the other's words towards Bertrand.

But besides this Aramis treats him and the other recruits with indifference, as if none of them is good enough to belong here. But what would be the alternative? 'Steal and lie for the rest of his life?'

He has made it this far, has fought for this chance. He can't give up now, not like that, not without trying everything.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When they return to the shooting range Aramis hasn't moved an inch, hat still in his face.

"What is the most important thing when using a firearm?" he asks.

"A solid stand," Maurice answers.

"Wrong."

"A free line of fire?"

"Is this a question or an answer, Baptiste? Anyhow, it's wrong."

"Quick reloading," Maurice tries again and this time Aramis pushes up his hat up and directly looks at Maurice. It is THE look. Porthos can feel how his fellow recruit holds his breath.

"Well, wonderful,"Aramis murmurs, "we have our first dead!" He pulls the hat back over his eyes. "Anybody else?"

"Care," Athos pipes up sounding a bit annoyed. "Has at least been the correct answer the last two times."

Again Aramis pushes up his hat, but this time he grins and nods approvingly at Athos.

"Somebody is listening to me!" he shouts and Baptiste snorts.

"Maybe you shouldn't always talk in your hat."

Aramis face darkens. "Actually it should go without saying. A weapon that is not cared for.."

"... is not reliable," Porthos ends the sentence. He isn't aware of having spoken out loud, not until everybody stares at him.

"Somebody else listening to me!" Aramis declares and gestures to Porthos with a smile. "Now that that's been settled, let's start." He puts on his hat, on his head where it belongs.

"Load, shoot, try to hit. Any questions?"

"How about a little demonstration?" Maurice asks. "We are learning from the best shot of the regiment, after all!" Coming from Maurice 'best shot of the regiment' doesn't sound any better than 'cockroach'.

"Maurice!" Athos intervenes, but Aramis waves him aside.

"Sure, if you don't know what to do otherwise." He gets up and takes the pistol from Baptiste. Porthos observes fascinated how quick Aramis inserts powder and ball into the gun barrel. Every move is perfected as if trained a thousand times, what probably is true. When Aramis then turns towards the targets and raises his arm, it happens. At first Porthos doesn't realize it, just wonders why the man is hesitating. But then he notices the trembling. It gets worse and finally Aramis lets his arm sink. He bites his lip and a distorted grin flits over his face.

"Let's postpone this til later, gentlemen," he says softly.

Baptiste snorts. "Of course. Later! Did you also say this to the men in Savoy?"

The sudden silence in the garrison hits Porthos like a blow. It reminds him fatally of an evening a few weeks ago at a different place. It is not logical, because none of the other men in the yard or the buildings around it could have heard Baptiste's words, but to Porthos it still feels as if the whole garrison is holding its breath. Aramis' reaction comes almost faster as the silence and the next moment Baptiste is facing a loaded pistol just inches away from his head. And this time Aramis' hand isn't trembling in the least.

"Say this again!" Aramis whispers and then his voice gets louder, "SAY THIS AGAIN!"

"ARAMIS!" Captain Treville's voice booms through the yard, "ARAMIS, STOP THIS!"

But Porthos isn't sure if Aramis hears it, or wants to hear it. At any rate his hand isn't moving. But still Porthos doesn't believe that Aramis really wants to shoot an unarmed man. That doesn't sound like the man Porthos reckons him to be.

So he slowly takes a step towards the two men.

"Aramis, take the weapon down."

"No." That isn't the answer Porthos has hoped for but at least Aramis is still speaking to him, that's a success.

"Aramis, do what Porthos says," it's Athos, who is also coming a step closer. "You don't really want to shoot him."

"Yes, I do!" Aramis objects.

"No, you don't," Athos tries again.

"He isn't armed, Aramis," Porthos points out and Aramis actually lets his arm sink a few inches, without ever looking away from Baptiste. Now the bullet wouldn't hit the head, but still the larynx, not really better.

"Put the weapon down! NOW!" It's the captain, who has crossed the yard and now is standing next to them.

"Aramis, please," Porthos tries again and the man finally lets his arm sink down. He turns away from Baptiste and hands Treville the weapon. Then pushes past the stunned captain and leaves.

"Where are you going? Aramis, stay!" This time Aramis doesn't obey, he just moves on.

"ARAMIS!" But the so addressed doesn't stop but single-mindedly heads for the garrison's exit. Nobody halts him.

Porthos wants to follow him. Aramis doesn't seem to be fully in his right mind, so Porthos would prefer it if someone was with him. He's thinking about how to best ask Treville when somebody else beats him to it.

Athos clears his throat. "Captain, apologies, but I wouldn't be here without Aramis. I would like to..."

"What he said," Porthos interjects. Athos seems just as surprised as he by this wish, but there would be time to talk about it later.

Both earn an astounded look from their captain, but after hesitating shortly Treville nods.

"Take care of him!"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

They follow Aramis from a distance through the winding streets and alleys of Paris. Close enough to not loose him, but far enough away to not be spotted by him, which Porthos isn't entirely sure that they really manage. He had been convinced that he hadn't been seen in that house entrance during the failed raid attempt and at overhearing the dispute between Aramis and the other Musketeers. And both times he had been wrong.

"We should drop back a little more," he suggests but Athos shakes his head.

"Then we'll loose him in this chaos."

"If he spots us he'll shake us off," he warns, "and believe me he will spot us."

"I'm not sure that he hasn't already..."

"But..."

"Ever thought that he wants us to follow?"

Not really, if Porthos is perfectly honest.

"As long as we have an eye on him Treville isn't going to send a search party," Athos continues.

"I don't know what normally happens if you threaten a comrade with a weapon and then run from the garrison, but I don't think it's pleasant."

"Nah, me neither," Porthos admits.

Aramis leads them farther away from the garrison, towards one of the better neighborhoods of Paris, where he finally stops in front of one of the well-kept three-story buildings. He knocks and shortly after is allowed to enter.

"What now?" Porthos asks.

The street is busy. Merchants are transporting their goods to the market close-by, housemaids haul crammed baskets back home. Athos stops one of the maids and points to the house Aramis has disappeared into.

The girl is doubtful at first but obviously they seem trustworthy enough. "It's the family Bouloir. Monsieur Bouloir is a notary."

They thank her and let her go.

"What now?" Porthos asks again.

"How likely is it that Aramis wants to see Monsieur Bouloir?" Athos queries and Porthos shrugs his shoulders.

"If he wants to make his last will... Does he?"

Athos shakes his head. "You don't survive a massacre to make your will afterward."

"Savoy..." Porthos states. He has heard about it, not much. It is more like a shadow going through the garrison. A word that is seldom spoken and if, then only in hushed tones, as if the word by itself meant death. He knows that it has cost the lives of many men, it was one of the reasons he could partake in the selection procedure for new recruits in the first place. He also knows that Aramis has been in Savoy, but he never really thought about what that actually means. Just today, when Baptiste has used it to spite Aramis, has he realized that the other man must have been in the middle of it and is the only one that returned alive.

"Wait a moment," Athos disrupts his musing and approaches the house. He knocks and Porthos can see that the door is opened and Athos shortly talks to a small, pudgy man. Then the door closes again and Athos returns.

"We should go to the back door," he says.

"And that's so because?"

"Because Monsieur Bouloir has an appointment out of office right now and when he comes back, I suppose someone we know will need to leave through this back door."

His face stays totally neutral at his words, only in the very end he slightly rolls his eyes.

Porthos nods in approval and they circle the block until they reach a narrow alley adjoining the backyard. The alley gives of the typical smell, confirming that its only use is for the refuse no to land in front of the houses. Porthos holds his breath for some seconds and glances at Athos, whom he assumes hasn't had a lot of experiences with such back alleys, but surprisingly the other man keeps a straight face.

"Do we really have to...," Porthos starts but Athos anticipates his thought.

"I think it is enough for us to wait at the alley entrance. From here we'll see him leave the house."

Porthos gratefully agrees. They position themselves at the entrance to the alley. Porthos is leaning against a wall, that gives of heat at his back. Since it already is warm that isn't really pleasant.

"We could play some cards..." he proposes.

Athos draws up an eyebrow, but doesn't say anything.

"Or we could just stand here," Porthos mumbles softly and this coaxes a grin from his companion. Even if it is just a slight grin.

"You said you wouldn't be a Musketeer without Aramis?" Athos asks after some time.

"Well, actually you said that," Porthos corrects him, "but yeah, it's true... He... well... he has... it's complicated."

"You're not nobility." It's a statement not a question, but it doesn't sound at all like judgment.

"True."

"You didn't know each other before." It also is no question and Porthos is asking himself where Athos is going with this.

"Nah." He'd almost said 'not directly', but it wouldn't be a good idea to warm up that story about a raid on a food delivery again or to generally say anything about his past in the Court of Miracles.

"He can't have helped you to join the regiment," Athos finishes, "so what exactly did he do?"

"He..." - 'covered up for me' would be correct, but Porthos can't say that without putting Aramis on the spot - "He believed in me," he finally says and Athos nods.

"It was similar for me."

Porthos looks at his counterpart. He knows Athos is nobility, but even if he didn't know it is still obvious; the straight posture, the aristocratic features, his determined demeanor, that's instilled in him since his youth. He can't imagine that this man of all man ever needed approval in his life. But that's probably unfair. There seems to be a shadow following Athos similar to Aramis. And being highborn doesn't necessarily save you from harm, but it often lessens the consequences.

"He maybe has an eye for the lost," Porthos says eventually.

"I could think of a reason why," Athos adds with a knowing look. Savoy.

"What' ya know about that?" Porthos asks, but the other man shakes his head.

"Probably not more than you."

"His hand...?"

Athos nods. "He told me it's because of a head wound. I assume it is a souvenir from Savoy."

"Makes sense... What exactly we gonna do when he comes out of that door?"

Athos shrugs. "We'll bring him back to the garrison."

"And then what? What' ll happen?"

Athos doesn't answer. After a while he sighs. "Let's wait in what condition he is in when he appears."

It takes longer than Porthos likes. The hours drag on. It is hot and stuffy between the houses. He walks up and down the narrow entrance of the alley. He admires Athos, who is leaning against the wall stoically, his gaze only leaving the door to chase off a nosy passerby with a glare.


	5. Aramis, Part 2

Aramis, Part 2

Porthos doesn't seem used to do nothing. The man even seems to be in motion when really he stands still, not that he did this overly much until now. But Athos also couldn't claim to like waiting at this stuffy back alley. His throat is dry and if there would be any bottle of wine available now he isn't sure he would be able not to abandon his duty. That's a fact that alarms him.

He rubs his eyes and then sees a boy coming nearer with a curious look. You can't avoid to attract attention if you keep standing at the same spot of the Parisian streets for hours, especially if you have a rapier and pistol at your belt. But Athos is already used to the people to draw back once they have been close enough to him. And thus the boy also can't stand being in his proximity for long and retreats.

"Do ya have to chase 'em all off?" Porthos asks standing next to him. "We could' ve send him to get us some drinks. I'm parched."

"What do you mean I chased him off? I am not doing anything."

Porthos glances at him doubtfully. "Yeah, sure." But says nothing more.

"Do I?"

He can't look further into it, because all of a sudden there are loud noises in the alley and both start walking towards them. There is a bang and cursing, something clanks and suddenly they hear a shot. A woman screams. Athos steps get faster without him even noticing and Porthos is following hard on his heels.

Another shot can be heard and again a woman screams.

"Claude, for heaven's sake, stop it!"

"I'll kill him! I'll kill him!"

"Monsieur Bouloir?" Porthos gasps.

"I would think so." He just hopes that the man isn't good at aiming.

Suddenly a door some feet in front of them opens. Aramis comes out and Athos notices that the man is noticeably fully clothed for someone whose date has just been startlingly interrupted, only the hat is missing.

"Aramis!" Porthos shouts from behind him and the addressed turns to them. Seeing them Aramis turns back to the door, obviously contemplating which threat is the bigger one.

He then seems to abandon both ways and turns to the opposite end of the alley, when another man runs out of the back door and grabs his lapel.

"You're staying here!" The assailant shouts and swings Aramis forcefully around so that he hits the wall of the backyard with his back. There the man holds him, squeezing his throat with his arm.

"Oi, stop that, at once!" That's Porthos again. By now they both are at the backdoor, when three more men emerge from the backyard. Two are heavily armed, the third is chubby, balding, with glasses on his nose and seems to be a bit short of breath. Athos thinks this must be Monsieur Bouloir, but he is not sure why a notary needs so many armed employees. Behind Bouloir stands a woman, obviously his wife, Madame Bouloir.

"What's going on?" he finally asks, one man still pressing Aramis against the wall, but the others have stopped. Hands on their weapons they eye Porthos and Athos sceptically.

"Gentlemen," it's Monsieur Bouloir who starts speaking," I thank you for your intervention, you are obviously men of honor, but this is a family matter."

"Claude, please, I beg you." That's Madame Bouloir, placing a hand on her husband's shoulder. "Nothing happened. He just wanted to talk, just talk." Her eyes search Athos' and it's the first time he really looks at her. She isn't young anymore, her hair already is mostly gray. But with her big eyes and the slender face she once must have been beautiful, that Athos can see. Still, he is surprised. Having heard the stories that are told about Aramis he had imagined Madame Bouloir to look a little different. She still looks at him, eyes pleading. "Please, bring him to terms!"

Monsieur Bouloir snorts. "Just talk, of course. Give me your pistol," he commands one of the men who really hands the notary the desired weapon.

"Monsieur, I can't allow this," Athos pipes up and steps between Bouloir and Aramis, even if this means that he has Aramis in his back now and can't see anymore what Bouloir's man is doing to him.

"Get out of my way or my men will remove you," Bouloir demands and raises the pistol. Porthos follows suit and presses the muzzle against the notary's neck.

"Drop it," he says.

The hands of the other two men go to their rapiers, while the third obviously increases the pressure on Aramis throat, Athos can hear a gargling sound.

"Monsieur, the man you are holding is one of the King's Musketeers. To murder him in this alley is treason," Athos still tries with rationality while silently checking his options. If Porthos can knock out Bouloir, he could then shoot one of the armed men while Athos attended to the second one, and Aramis hopefully would be able to defend himself against his captor. Really not the worst plan.

Bouloir snorts. "This dog has slept with my wife!"

"That is not true!" Madame Bouloir cries out, but her husband isn't listening.

"I have every right to shoot him or at least castrate him!"

Athos can hear the gargling sound from Aramis again.

"No you don't," he reasons with Bouloir. "Only the King himself..."

He isn't able to finish the sentence, because in this moment Bouloir's pistol goes off. The man had his finger at the trigger the whole time and probably just tired. The ball misses Athos and Aramis as well and instead hits one of his own men at the shoulder, who howls loudly. Right in this moment Porthos knocks down Bouloir with the handle of his pistol. But he has no time to fire it to eliminate a second man because he is already attacked. One man has unsheathed his rapier and with a jump knocks the pistol from Porthos hand. Porthos barely evades a second strike by backing off and drawing his sword in turn. Bouloir's man seems experienced, more experienced than Porthos, but Athos can't help him since there are two more opponents.

The one with the bullet wound has recovered, it being just his left shoulder that's hit he is still able to attack Athos with pulled out rapier. The alley is narrow – again – not a good condition for a duel, but Athos doesn't have the intention to let it come to a long fight in any case. It is hot, it stinks and he is thirsty!

As soon as his attacker comes closer Athos feigns a backwards lunge. The man leans forward and Athos dodges the blade. Then he grabs the injured shoulder and squeezes. His opponent howls, staggers and Athos kicks at his knee with full force. There's a snap. The man falls to the ground and lies there unconscious.

Athos grabs for the man's rapier and wants to turn towards Aramis and his captor, but he doesn't see the fist coming. It hits his stomach with force and he let's go of both rapiers. His hands instinctively go up but he is too slow. Another fist collides with is face and he can feel how he is losing his balance even before the pain hits. He can hear shouts but can't relate them.

He anticipates another blow but it doesn't come. He is waiting to hit the floor but something or someone is holding him upright. There's a hand on his arm. But when he really senses it, it's already gone again. He's still standing.

"Athos, are you alright? Athos?" There are hands in his face but he bats them away.

"Can you open your eyes, please?" That's Aramis who is pleading with him and Athos obliges. For a moment everything is blurry, he blinks and then he can see Aramis' face and his scrutinizing look.

"Can you see me?" he asks.

"Very funny," Athos mutters.

"Obviously he can," he can hear Porthos say. He turns towards the voice but that makes the ground tilt. Again somebody grabs his Arm, it's Aramis.

"Careful, you were roughed up quite a bit."

Athos snorts "It's nothing!"

He can hear Porthos laugh.

This time he is able to turn towards him and piece together the whole scene. There are three motionless bodies in the alley. Over one of them, a couple of feet away, Porthos is standing, grinning.

"We should be going," Aramis is murmuring behind him.

He looks to his side. Monsieur Bouloir has picked himself up and sits in the open door to the backyard, his wife at his side, who is mopping up his brow. Bouloir seems to be beside himself. He doesn't do anything when he notices Athos' look, just stares back a little confused.

Athos heeds Aramis' advice and starts to move. He wants to grab his rapier, but before he can try Aramis reaches down and then hands him the weapon.

"Is he dead?" he wants to know when he passes Porthos adversary.

Porthos shakes his head. "Nah, he's not. He just was fidgeting a bit too much with that rapier of his, so I hadda shove him against the wall. Was his fault that he hit it with his head first."

Porthos demonstrates the move and Athos can see some red seeping through the leather of his sleeve coloring the visible part of the white shirt.

"You are bleeding," he states.

Porthos just shrugs. "Says the man with the black eye and concussion."

"You're bleeding!" This time it's Aramis and Porthos can't shrug his shoulder because Aramis has grabbed his arm and is tugging at the leather of his sleeve.

"It's nothin'!" Porthos protests, but Aramis shakes his head.

"Get your jacket off!" he orders.

"We really should leave." It is not as if Athos doesn't care for Porthos, but the man is standing, saying he is alright, and when the Red Guards arrive in five minutes a cut at the arm will be their smallest problem.

Aramis graces him with an indignant look, but after some seconds nods.

"We can go to my place. It's not far and there I can look at the wound and stitch it if necessary."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Aramis lives a couple of streets away, at the upper room of the house of a "freed from matrimony and blessed with inheritance, old lady", that's how he phrases it. The house is narrow and with only two stories relatively small, but it looks well-kept. It smells like plum when they enter.

Madame Pinont – dressed in a black dress buttoned up high up to her throat, with tight chignon and dark piercing eyes – throws them a suspicious look as they try, to no avail, to climb the stairs up to the room under the roof without her noticing.

"Do I want to know?" she asks Aramis, but before he can reply she already shakes her head. "I didn't see anything."

Aramis sighs. "What if you did see me and I did ask you for hot water and rags?"

Madame Pinont eyes them up one by one and Athos suddenly feels guilty, although he hasn't any idea for what exactly.

"I would say that you look energetic enough to go to the kitchen yourself. There you'll find the kettle and also rags."

Aramis bows a little. "Many thanks, Madame Pin..."

But Madame Pinont has already turned back to her room. The door clunks shut behind her noisily.

"That woman scares me," Porthos states.

"And you didn't even meet her when she's mad!" Aramis murmurs.

"That's not been mad?" Porthos wants to know and Aramis grins.

"No, today she was in a good mood. But don't worry, she doesn't normally strike guests!"

Athos shortly thinks about asking what that's supposed to mean, but he rapidly asks himself how he could even entertain the idea to want to know more about this. He really must have a concussion. A tap on his shoulder wrenches him from his thoughts.

"Please go up already, I'll follow with water and rags."

Aramis' room is small and plain, but thanks to the broad window in the gable it is bright and looks pleasant. There is a closet, a bed, a table and a chair, there wouldn't fit much more in the room.

Aramis doesn't seem to be the messy type, or he doesn't dare because of Madame Pinont, anyhow it is fairly tidy. There's a bible and a rosary next to the bed, quill, ink and paper on the table next to an ewer and basin. All personal belongings, in case Aramis has any, are stowed away in the closet.

Athos notices Porthos still standing in the doorway as if the room was eerie for the other man.

"Is everything alright?"

Porthos shrugs. "It's strange. I'm not used ta anybody havin' this much room for himself. And it feels wrong walking around in it if he isn't here."

Athos again has a look around the room. 'So much room for himself.' He realizes that Porthos hails from humble homes and obviously those have been very humble. He decides to say nothing about how often this room would fit in his old bedroom, as if the size of the room would say anything about its inhabitant.

They can hear somebody coming up the stairs and Porthos opts for entering the room after all. Aramis appears with a pot in his hand and rags over his arm.

"Sit on the bed, Porthos," he says while putting pot and rags on the table, "and remove your jacket."

The thus addressed does as he says. "You not plannin' something … dirty, are ya?" he wants to know and Aramis throws him a scathing glance.

"Sorry, just a joke..."

Aramis shakes his head. "It's been a hard day..." he mumbles and hands Athos one of the rags.

"Wet it with the cold water from the ewer and put it on your eye, maybe that helps."

"Maybe?"

The other looks caught. "Well...it...it..."

"It looks hideous," Porthos finishes and Athos automatically looks for a mirror but doesn't find one. His hand cautiously prods his eye socket but rapidly removes. For just a black eye it hurts a lot.

"Do you have anything to drink?" he asks and Aramis nods.

"Of course!" he goes to the bed, pushes Porthos' legs with his foot away and then pulls forth a crate. He first hands Athos and then Porthos a bottle but doesn't take one himself.

"Thanks," Athos murmurs and takes a sip. The wine isn't bad at all, maybe a little too watery.

"That's the least I can do." Aramis turns back to the rags and pot with hot water and brings both to Porthos who has exposed his arm. For Athos liking the wound is quite deep and reaches from the elbow almost to the wrist. But obviously Porthos doesn't seem to agree.

"Told ya it's nothin'." he says when Aramis washes away the blood to then take the bottle of wine from him and pour a generous amount over the wound. Porthos bites his lip but doesn't make a sound.

"That is not 'nothing'!" Aramis objects. "That needs stitching!"

Porthos doesn't seem pleased.

"Be glad that it is the left arm," Athos tries to cheer him up, "you won't need it if Aramis accidentally sews it to your ear."

He did forget that right now Aramis can't take a joke. Very well that looks can't kill.

"Sorry," he mumbles.

"I need the chair."

Athos steps aside. As Aramis grabs the chair next to him it's the first time he notices how pale the other man looks. The bags under his eyes suddenly look a dark black. And didn't he just see a tremble?

"Aramis, are you alright?"

The man shrugs and just drags the chair over the floor. Athos can see that Porthos now is also looking more closely.

"What's that on your throat?" he wants to know and when Athos follows the look he curses quietly. How could he miss this?

"Are those strangulation marks?" Porthos digs deeper. And they are. They've been partially hidden by the collar of his shirt and by the fact that Athos simply hadn't looked, but once he sees them they are not to be missed.

"Not really," Aramis explains a little impatient. "I mean... Bouloir's man didn't really strangle me. He just had his arm unfavorably … well, somehow I had to get free. So … all's good. Now let us stitch that wound!"

"You're trembling!" Athos declares, now he is sure. And this time it isn't only the hand, Aramis' whole body is shaking. "You are totally exhausted. You should rest."

"Let me stitch that. That needs stitches!"

"Sure, but maybe..."

Porthos comes to his aid. He stands up and points to the bed.

"Just lay down first, Aramis. I promise the arm won't fall off and you can tend to it later." He grabs a rag and winds it around his arm.

Aramis is shaking his head. "No. No... it's the least I can..."

Again this word. Athos already didn't like it the first time, but he had ticked it off as not important then.

"What do you want to say?" this time he asks. "What do you mean 'the least'?"

Aramis watches them with a peculiar look in his eyes.

"Why did you follow me?" he finally wants to know. "Why did you wait for me? Why … help me?"

Athos exchanges a glance with Porthos and sees his helplessness mirrored in the other man's eyes.

"Because you, too, did help us, Aramis," he then explains the obvious.

"Besides you were in trouble," Porthos adds, "and we are Musketeers … or, well, wanna become part of 'em … anyway, Musketeers are about honor, aren't they? So it goes without saying to help each other."

Aramis still doesn't seem to be convinced, although Athos isn't entirely sure of what Aramis is trying to convince himself. The trembling has gotten worse by now and he heavily leans on the chair he's dragged through the room.

"You need to rest," he tries again, but Aramis shakes his head.

"I can't … simply can't." It sounds so irrevocable and the look in Aramis' eyes reminds him so much of himself that Athos starts to suspect.

"Aramis, when was the last time you slept properly?"

The answer is silence and that is answer enough.

"That needs to be stitched," Aramis says at some point, but there isn't any real force behind it. Porthos snorts.

"Saving ya from enraged husbands doesn't mean I'm letting you, in your condition, close to me with a needle, my friend. Sorry, but that ain't happening."

"You should go," Aramis suggests lowly and before Athos can even protest Porthos is shaking his head vehemently.

"That's out of the question. I won't leave before I've seen ya sleeping in this bed with my own eyes. And I don't mean this in the figurative sense!"

Aramis bursts out laughing, but it's without joy. His hands clutch at the back of the chair. Athos suspects that otherwise he would fall.

"I can't! I can't sleep!"

"Why not?" Athos wants to know.

"Because... because I have to watch out."

Athos doesn't know what that's supposed to mean. "Watch out for what?"

Aramis' hands cramp even harder on the chair and Athos is with him before his legs can give out and send him to the floor. He pushes Aramis to the bed, on which the other man sinks, too exhausted to offer resistance. Athos grabs the chair and sits opposite Aramis, he takes the other's hands and holds them, loosely enough that the other could withdraw anytime.

"For what do you need to watch out, Aramis?"

He doesn't say anything for some time. His look indicates he is somewhere far away from the room. He still trembles and Porthos eventually puts his jacket around his shoulders. He sits down close, close enough that their shoulders touch. Aramis doesn't seem to notice.

"For the attack.." His voice is only a whisper, as if he was telling them a secret. "I have to warn them, I have to warn the others... because... cause if I don't... they're dead. If I sleep, they're all dead. I did sleep - and all were dead."

His look returns to the room and he looks at Athos.

"Don't let me sleep, Athos, please don't let me sleep. They shall not … shall not die. You hear me? They shall not all be dead."

Athos meets Porthos' eyes, who suddenly turns pale. He doesn't really feel any better himself. Savoy. He has heard about it. He knows that it has cost the life of twenty Musketeers. Knows that the ambush surprised the soldiers while they were asleep, so that they didn't really have a chance to defend themselves. He knows all this and still doesn't have a clue.

"I can't sleep, Athos. I can't … can't wake up again and..."

"But what if we keep watch, Aramis? We, Porthos and I? You've kept watch such a long time, we … we can take over. We'll watch out while you sleep."

Aramis looks at Porthos. "You … would do that? Watch out?"

Porthos nods in agreement and even smiles, Athos has to give him credit for that. "'Course, I'll make sure Athos doesn't doze off. Nobody' ll get past us!"

Aramis seems to think about the offer seriously. Athos is trying not to press him, but it's hard.

"If you keep watch, I can sleep, yes?" Aramis assures himself again and Athos struggles not to roll his eyes.

"Yeah, you can sleep, Aramis," Porthos reassures him.

"You'll wake me up when my shift starts?" Aramis asks further and Porthos also answers this one.

"'Course, we'll wake ya. 'Til then you have a good night's rest and 'll be fit again in the morning."

It still takes a couple more tenacious minutes but in the end Aramis nods in approval.

"Alright."

Athos has to suppress a sigh of relief. He just helps Porthos to take of their friend's weapons belt, his jacket and boots. Then they pull all the sheets and blankets they can find over him.

Aramis is not at all cooperative through this procedure. Athos believes that by accepting the changing of the guard all the remaining adrenaline, that's kept the exhausted body upright until now, has vanished. Aramis is barely responsive, so Athos is surprised when a hand grabs his. The other's eyes are only able to blink sluggishly under heavy lids and he has to bend close to hear his plea.

"You'll both stay here? Do you?", he wants to know.

"Of course we both stay."

"Thank you!"

It doesn't take more than ten seconds until the even rhythm of Aramis' breathing lets them know he is asleep.


	6. Athos, Porthos and Aramis

Athos, Porthos and Aramis

They watch their sleeping friend for some time, but nothing indicates that Aramis isn't having some well-deserved deep sleep from which he won't wake very soon.

"Fellow 's pretty messed-up," Porthos mutters lowly.

"We should stitch up your arm now," Athos remarks when he sees the makeshift bandage that doesn't look as if it will hold for long.

Porthos sighs. "Why is it ya all wanna sew me up. That's ..."

"... not 'nothing'!" Athos interrupts and points to Aramis. "When he wakes up and we are able to show him a tended to wound he'll have one less worry at least."

It's obvious that Porthos rather wants to protest but simultaneously wants to do Aramis a favor and so he finally nods.

"Alright," he relents.

Their intention is cut short when they realize that Aramis did get water and rags but they can't see thread and needle anywhere, and they are reluctant to rummage through Aramis' closet.

"We could ask Madame Pinont." Porthos doesn't sound thrilled and Athos, too, does find the prospect of asking Aramis' shrew for help not at all alluring.

"I promised him we both would stay here."

Porthos looks at Aramis and shrugs. "Told ya it's nothing."

Athos sighs but refrains from answering.

Porthos leans on the wall next to the bed and slowly sinks to the ground. So the chair is left for Athos. Both stay silent, watch the even lifting and lowering of Aramis' chest.

"From a woman?" Porthos suddenly asks and Athos realizes that his hand has involuntarily closed around his locket. He puts it back underneath his shirt and nods shortly. Porthos doesn't ask further questions.

"It's a long story," he mumbles after some time. He doesn't want to talk about it, but he also doesn't want Porthos to think that it's some fault of his.

There simply isn't anybody with whom he would talk about it. When he had started his running away from the world he really hadn't expected to be required to talk to anybody ever again. It had been so easy to get lost. But the return turns out to be difficult. He knows he should show some part of himself to be accepted, but most of the time he feels like an open wound and any contact with the outside world just hurts.

He doesn't expect Porthos to understand that, but instead the other man actually nods.

"I'm familiar with this," he confirms, and thus the matter seems to be settled for him.

They remain silent again, until Porthos clears his throat.

"Didn't take anythin' from her with me," he says seemingly out of context. "When I left. Didn't even say I was leavin'. She probably 's been looking for me."

"Maybe you should let her know?" Athos suggests when he has made out that it's probably about a woman.

Porthos seems to think about it, but then shakes his head.

"She would na understand. That here, it's not her world. She... she wouldn't approve, never."

"But she surely would want to know that you are alright. Wouldn't she?"

Porthos gives him a pained laugh. "Yeah, sure. But then … I don't wanna see the look in her eyes when she realizes I don't belong in her world anymore."

Athos has to admit that it's difficult to follow the conversation with the little knowledge he actually has on Porthos. But it probably would be unfair to ask for more information if he himself is not willing to give any. He just can relay his own experiences, saying that two worlds never should mingle. Admittedly his experiences probably aren't the norm, but he'll keep that to himself.

"Why can't you go back to her world?" he instead asks.

"Didn't feel right 'nymore," comes the reply and the tone of the voice let's him know that this is also a 'long story'.

But before Athos can decide about asking further questions they hear a gentle knock at the door. Their looks automatically go to Aramis, whose eyelids flutter, he rolls onto his side but doesn't wake.

Athos stands up and silently goes to the door.

"Madame Bouloir!"

That he is surprised doesn't describe it half. His eyes search the place behind the notary's wife, but there are no Red Guards and also no husband with armed employees.

"I am alone," she anticipates his thoughts. She is holding a package in her hands and tries to see around him into the room.

"May I enter, Monsieur...?"

"Athos." He steps aside and lets her pass.

She looks around the room and nods to Porthos, who stood up. Then her eyes find the bed and she is obviously embarrassed.

"Oh, that... I'm sorry," she turns to Athos, "I didn't mean to... intrude in such a way. I... I just wanted to make sure he is alright. And to give this back."

She hands Athos the package. It is bulky and feels flexible. Athos is wondering what it could be until he thinks of Aramis' missing hat.

"Thank you, Madame. Can we... relay something to him when he wakes up?"

She turns back to Aramis and looks at him for some time.

"He looks peaceful," she decides.

She looks to Athos and Porthos in turn. "Thank you for being there today. I did tell him not to come anymore, but I couldn't just send him away nonetheless. Not when... after... I know what you must think."

"We don't think anythin', Madame," Porthos interjects and she examines him more closely.

"Monsieur...?" she asks.

"Porthos."

"Porthos," she repeats. "You would be the first one not to draw conclusions and condemn us."

"It might surprise you, Madame, but I'm not usually in the habit of condemning anybody just because of speculations" Porthos replies.

Madame Bouloir nods. "I even believe you," she smiles sadly, "that's why it hurts to disappoint you. We did have a iaispn, but that was already a couple of years ago. It was before my marriage. Then I was … my youth … I did loose it somewhat sudden … an illness. After that ..." she stops, a hurt expression fleeting over her face.

"Some weeks ago he just stood in front of my door. Said he needed a place where nobody would find him. I had heard the rumors about Savoy. They said that nobody did survive. They mentioned his name when talking about the dead. When I saw him … I couldn't send him away."

"Naturally, Madame." Athos believes that she already told a lot more than she intended to do, but he doesn't want to give her the feeling that her words are inappropriate.

"He just wanted to talk," she continues,"he always said that. Only talk. But he never said anything. Not about that. I think he really wanted to, tried to, but he simply couldn't. I want you to know that, because he can't come to me anymore. Please, you must make him understand that."

She looks first to Athos then to Porthos, both nod in agreement.

"Will your husband press charges?"Athos asks and Madame Bouloir snorts quietly.

"Oh, he threatened to do it. I explained to him what damage that would cause to his reputation, if anybody knew that he is chasing his customers with pistols through dirty alleys. So he gave up on this idea."

"Thank you, Madame."

She nods and then a shadow crosses her face. "It's not because of my husband. That's not it. It's just... so much hurt, I can't... I can't..."

"You don't need to justify yourself, Madame Bouloir, you really don't," Athos interjects softly. "Nobody in this room blames you for anything."

"Nobody," Porthos confirms when she searches his eyes.

She nods. "Thank you. I'm glad he has you." Then she turns to leave.

"I'll escort you," Athos offers and follows her downstairs.

When he returns he meets Madame Pinont at the landing. The old lady looks him over critically, again giving Athos the feeling of having done something wrong.

"No lady visitors," she says sharply and Athos nods.

"Of course. That was... that was..."

"Next time make sure that such meetings take place somewhere neutral as is proper."

Athos opens his mouth, but instead of an explanation or a protest about such assumptions just a weak "Yes, Madame." crosses his lips.

"Well, then, do you need anything else up there?"

Athos is stunned by the sudden care and needs a moment until he remembers.

"Ahem... yes, thread and needle. For... for a wound."

Madame Pinont doesn't look amused, but gives him the required items. Athos is asking himself if he also could have asked her for something to eat. But on the other hand, he easily can survive a day without food. About surviving Madame Pinont's wrath he isn't so sure.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

 _It is cold. It had snowed for the whole ride and their destination in the forest is also covered in the white frostiness. It's not the first time Aramis is asking himself whose dumb idea it had been to do this training exercise. They've put up their tents and lit up some fires, but even when he stands close to the flames he is still cold. Shouldn't springtime at last begin by the end of march?_

" _What's wrong with you?" Marsac wants to know. "You look like somebody's put vinegar in your wine!"_

" _I'm cold!" Aramis mutters. "And I miss Paris."_

 _Marsac grins. "I guess it's rather a certain young lady you are missing, or two or three again?"_

 _Aramis refrains from commenting this. There just flares up a picture of Laure behind his eyes, but he mentally shoves it far away. He doesn't want to think about her, if he does it would just remind him of how far away he is from her right now._

" _Duh! Don't say you're not cold." he grumbles instead._

" _Well yes, I am," Marsac admits, "but at least it is not so wet that our sleeping pallets are soaked through, the sewer overflowing and us standing in our own muck up to the ankles. So I prefer the cold."_

 _Aramis unfortunately has to agree. This here is better than Montauban. Anything is better than Montauban._

" _Come on, let's find out if there is some food ready for us, yet." Marsac grabs Aramis shoulder and pushes him towards the tent with the mess hall._

 _The memories always stop at the same time. He can see it up to this point, Marsac's hands on his shoulders pushing him forward. Followed by a huge void. Until there are more pictures flashing up. Fragments, seemingly without meaning, at random._

 _Marsac's hands on his forehead. Marsac's hand closing around his. Marsac's voice in his ear, saying something to him, but he can't remember what it was. Coldness. It is so cold, all the time. Thunder, screams, clatter. Pain, a flurry and darkness. He can't move. It goes quiet before the sun starts to rise. So quiet. He sees Marsac before he grasps why he can't see the others, grasps that the bundles laying about scattered aren't bundles at all. No, it couldn't be. Not again. He has been here before and he should have prevented it, he should have..._

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Aramis. Aramis, wake up! Wake up!"

There are hands on his shoulders. Not Marsac's, of that he is sure. They don't push him, they hold him and he doesn't know if that is good or bad.

"Wake up! You're home, you're safe!"

He knows that voice, it is a deep and friendly voice and if he is remembering it right then it belongs to Porthos. But what is Porthos doing here?

He opens his eyes and sees the face belonging to the voice. It looks worried.

"Everythin' alright?" Porthos wants to know but admittedly Aramis can't answer this question. He has no idea what's going on.

"Where am I?" is the first thing he asks, because this questions has many times saved his life. Madame Clémant's bedroom, for example, is on the fourth floor. If you have to leave hastily, it would be advisable to use the servants stair. But only if you know that you are at Madame Clémant's.

"At your lodgings," Porthos explains and that calms Aramis. He didn't really feel like running anyway. He is exhausted, his head hurts and his mouth is terribly dry.

Obviously Porthos has guessed his thoughts, because instantly there is a glass of water in front of him.

"You should drink somethin'" Porthos suggests. "Can ya sit up on your own or shall I help?"

The question rattles Aramis. Of course he can sit up alone! He's not an invalid or something. So he sits up and the world tilts a little. There is a hand on his shoulder again immediately.

"Slowly, you've slept almost sixteen hours, you need to wake up properly first."

Sixteen what?

He looks around and really sees his room. He also sees Athos on the opposite side of the room sitting on the chair and viewing him attentively. His right eye is black and swollen and his inner voice tells him that he is somehow responsible but he can't remember how. Next to Athos is breakfast and for a moment his brain forgets that he wanted to get his bearings, he is hungry.

"You wanna eat some'?" Porthos really can read thoughts.

"In a moment, but ..." he forces himself to look away from the food. "What happened?" he wants to know. There are Athos and Porthos in his room, in the morning. Obviously they have been here the whole night, but rather, if he went by the tired look on their faces, not for sleeping. But why? He slept, a long time. He had been back in Savoy. Savoy. He doesn't sleep since then. He wants, but he can't and yet …

"You remember?" Athos asks.

"You've been here the whole time?" Aramis questions and too late thinks that 'Thank you' would have probably been the better answer.

But neither Athos nor Porthos seem to be offended. Athos just nods and Porthos again holds the glass of water in front of him.

"Here, drink!" For an order this sounds quite kind and when Aramis has emptied the glass at least his head feels clearer.

Slowly more memories of yesterday return. He can't say that he likes them.

"Baptiste," it's the first that comes to his mind, and he unconsciously voices the name out loud.

He had threatened the man with a loaded weapon. Christ, he was in trouble. He looks to Athos and Porthos and can understand even less why they are still here. Even yesterday he had been surprised that they had followed him, but now he catches the only logical reason.

"You surely had the order to bring me back to the garrison, hadn't you?"

They both exchange a glance and Athos shrugs his shoulders.

"No, not really. Treville said we should look after you."

"I'd think he'd send some more experienced soldiers to fulfill an order like this," Porthos adds.

Aramis wants to say that they had done good for supposedly inexperienced men, after all they managed to prevent the enraged Bouloir from killing him. Whereupon he remembers what mess he has dragged them into.

"Madame Bouloir has been here," Athos suddenly says. He also seems to be able to read his thoughts.

"Marie?" Aramis looks up and Athos points to a package on the table next to the plate with the breakfast. It vaguely has the shape of his hat. He seems to want to say more but changes his mind.

Aramis sighs inwardly. He doesn't want to talk about it, but it's worse to leave it just uncommented.

"I guess you want an explanation?" he asks although Athos and Porthos both shake their heads.

"You need na explain anythin'" Porthos says, "you tell us what you wanna tell us and if you wanna tell us nothin' that's fine." He takes the empty glass from Aramis and hands him instead the plate from the table, which is piled with bread, cheese and fruits sufficient for at least three people. "Anyhow ya needa eat first! And then Athos can tell you about his adventures with Madame Pinont!"

That makes Aramis turn his eyes from the cheese on the plate.

"Madame Pinont? What...?"

Athos dismisses this with a smile. "Porthos is exaggerating vastly. I simply asked her for a sewing kit for Porthos' arm and then ..."

"Your arm!" Aramis doesn't understand how he could have forgotten.

"Is still attached," Porthos eases instantly and points to the plate on his lap. "Eat!"

But Aramis doesn't let himself get distracted so easily. "Show me the wound," he demands.

He can see Athos and Porthos exchange a glance and Athos shrugs, as if saying 'I told you!'.

Porthos sighs and rolls up the sleeve of his shirt.

"You have a new shirt," Aramis remarks, because there is no blood on it.

"Yeah, I have," Porthos confirms, but doesn't explain further. There now is a bandage visible. "I 'd take it off, but then I'd have to answer for it to Madame Pinont," he says.

"I beg your pardon?" Aramis can't imagine his landlady having anything to do with this.

"Can I now tell the story?" Athos wants to know and since Porthos has already rolled his sleeve back down Aramis nods obediently.

"She obviously didn't trust us to be able to stitch a wound. Shortly after she had given me the sewing kit she came up here and said she'd rather look at the wound herself."

"Not that anybody dies in her house," Porthos adds. "'Cause that would make problems."

"And we're not sure what we have done, but ..."

"...she suddenly was quite approachable," Porthos interrupts, which doesn't seem to disturb Athos in the least. Aramis suspects that they both had rehearsed this story during the night.

"Gave me a shirt. Said her deceased husband does na need it anymore."

"She also brought a spare blanket for you," Athos points to Aramis' bed and there really is a woolen blanket that is not his.

"And dinner and breakfast," Porthos adds.

"You're sure it was Madame Pinont and not her good twin?"

Athos cocks his head. "Probably not, because we shall tell you that lady visitors are absolutely off-limits and that she'll grab you on your collar and..."

"She did na say 'collar'" Porthos interjects, but Athos ignores him.

"...drag you on the street and she'll throw all your things out of the window, if she ever sees a woman going up the stairs again."

Porthos nods with a grin. "Yeah, and anyhow visitors of any kind aren't allowed during the night, never. On no account will she accept this again."

"And you have to pay for the blanket..."

"... for the breakfast as well. The dinner was free. But unfortunately you slept during that."

Aramis looks at his breakfast again and sighs. Madame Pinont probably would charge him a month's rent for this, but when he bites into the cheese it's almost forgotten, because it tastes fantastic. For a second he forgets why Athos and Porthos are keeping watch over him while he eats, why he is lying in bed and why it is something special that he feels rested. But he can't evade those thoughts for long and after his hunger is sated the well-known knot in his stomach returns and his bile is rising.

"We should report to the garrison," he explains when he pushes the plate away. Porthos takes it. He looks as if he wants to say something, but doesn't. "How late is it anyway?"

"Early enough. We still have time," Athos states.

"Listen, you don't need to look after me. I promise I'll report to the Captain later, you don't need to be there. After all I'm the one that threatened Baptiste and the matter with Bouloir..."

"Stop it!" Athos interrupts him sharply and even Porthos suddenly seems to stiffen. "If you are planning on shutting us out I have to tell you that this is beyond question. We'll come with you when you go to Treville. And if the matter of Monsieur Bouloir should arise, which I don't believe because he won't want to cause a ruckus, we will solve this together. Understood?"

Aramis doesn't understand. He doesn't understand what he has done to make those two fight for him against Bouloir's men and watch over him the whole night. He simply doesn't get it.

He looks at Porthos, who seems a bit surprised by Athos speech but nodding in agreement.

"Be glad he told ya, I wouldna have used such nice words."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When they enter the garrison an hour later Athos is walking to his right, Porthos to his left. He can see the looks of his comrades. He should be used to them, but he isn't. He knows that they don't do it on purpose and that nobody wants to harm him, but still everybody is looking at him with a look saying 'That's the only survivor.' It's a look that inevitably asks the question 'Why him?'

They avoid him. Not knowingly, but when they meet him they don't know what to say, don't know what to do. He isn't the same Aramis anymore. He is different now. He is the Aramis who was in Savoy. He is Aramis, who was there when all their other friends died. He is Aramis whom death has looked over the shoulder. He could scream with rage. He could tell them that the morning next to his dead friends had been easier than the weeks following being in this silent dock. It wouldn't be the truth, not completely. Both is equally bad.

Today, wedged between Athos and Porthos, he can almost ignore the looks, as if they are bouncing off the bodies to his sides. When they near the captain's office he again tries to tell them that he can do this alone, that it's enough if he is on the receiving end of Treville's wrath, but just as he draws breath, Porthos shakes his head.

"Don't even try."

Aramis relents and lets Athos knock on Treville's door.


	7. Treville

_So this is the final chapter._

 _Thanks to all who read, follow and favorite. Also a big thank you for all reviews. It is so nice to know how much you like this story. We really appreciate your feedback._

 _We are currently working on a story about Aramis adventures as a soldier before he came to the Musketeers – as you can guess Aramis is kind of our favorite :-)_

 _But as this story will take some time we might post a couple of one-shots in the meantime. Hope to read you again..._

* * *

Treville

Treville eyes up the three men in front of him. He is utterly speechless. Again his eyes roam from left to right and back, but the result is the same: one swollen face with a black eye, one badly concealed bandage on the left arm and one face telling him that its owner is feeling very guilty. Although he just had asked Athos and Porthos to take care of Aramis. What in all probability could have gone wrong after all?

"Captain, we found Aramis," Athos repeats unnecessarily and Treville realizes that he needs to decide which of the sentences on his mind he will speak out loud.

'Thank you for the information, but a preliminary report would have been nice.'

or

'And where in hell did you search for the last twenty hours? Toulouse?'

or

'Ever heard of giving notice of departure? Just because I allowed you to follow a comrade you still have to make a report before end of work!'

or

'And where is the report about the black eye and the wound on the arm? Yes, the bandage is easily visible under the sleeve. I'm not blind!'

or

'Wherever have you been for the last twenty hours? Three man have been wounded in an alley close to the Bouloir's residence. Don't tell me you weren't involved in this or I'll let you muck out the stables for six weeks!'

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

In the end he says none of these sentences. He knows he should yell at them. Even with his permission to leave Athos and Porthos can't just vanish for almost a day and that Aramis has left the garrison without permission, after what has happened to boot, is rather intolerable.

What prevents him from shouting is Aramis of all things or rather the look in his eyes. He looks guilty, yes, but there is something else, something close to relaxed, far from the hounded expression that he's been carrying since Savoy.

Savoy. When he was told about the massacre they at first said that there were no survivors. Only slowly he was able to piece together the whole story and with it the fault he carries for the deaths, for every single one of them.

And then there is Aramis. Who survived and whose sight reminds him every day of what he has done. He did try to help him, promised him time, time to recover, time to grow back into his duties as a Musketeer again. But that time slowly is running short. Aramis knows this too. But the way back just seemed to be loo long.

He has no idea what Athos and Porthos have done, but it obviously is something good and there is no way he will endanger this ray of hope.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He knows he can't ignore this incident. He can't just compliment the three, express his relief, tell them of his guilt and ask them for forgiveness. He his their captain and those three men have disobeyed orders or at least interpreted them vastly.

But once … just once.

"Gentlemen, I don't need to tell you that thus long an absence from your duties without any preliminary report won't be accepted in the future without previous agreement. You're assigned to palace guard detail. Aramis will brief you. Was that all?"

For a moment they stand in puzzled silence until Aramis clears his throat.

"Ahem... Captain...," he looks at him dubiously, "regarding Baptiste. I take it that that … well... can't stay unacknowledged?"

Treville sighs.

"Not at all, Aramis. But a decision has to wait since Baptiste talked to me yesterday and has come to the conclusion that the Regiment of the Musketeers doesn't meet his expectations."

He withholds the information that he had given him the choice to either go and keep silent about the incident or to be left to the mercy of the rest of the garrison, who already had been on the verge of lunging at him to defend Aramis' honor. He knows that Aramis can't bear the looks of the others. But he also knows that it is the same for them. Where Aramis believes to see accusations the others simply want to apologize for not being there.

Aramis opens his mouth, but doesn't say anything.

"He probably will switch over to the Red Guards," Treville continues. "In this context I want to remind you, by way of precaution only, of the absolute prohibition of dueling. I don't want to find any complaints on my table. Am I understood?"

"Understood," Aramis repeats if not really convincing, and with a move of his hand Treville shoos all three of them out of his office.

He looks after them and when the door clunks shut he can't get rid of the feeling that those three surely will cause him a lot of trouble still.

\- END Book 1 -

xxxxx

* * *

 _Preview of Book 2..._

 _xxxxx_

 _Montauban, September 1621_

 _xxxxx_

 _It rains. No, Aramis corrects himself, it's not simply rain, it's a downpour and a heavy one to boot. He asks himself if God wants to strike mankind with another deluge. Well, He probably would have enough reasons to._

 _He tries a short thanksgiving prayer, for Marsac and him getting through the battle at Saint-Jean-d'Angély without so much as a scratch and for their journey to Montauban being without incident so far – save for the rain – but that is all he can think of to be thankful for._

 _His hat has surrendered to the rain a long time ago. The water accumulates in the brim until it his too heavy and repeatedly sloshes in small gushes along his neck down his cloak. The cloak is soaked already, just like his jacket, doublet and shirt, as well as his stockings, breeches and yes, the way it feels, also his smallclothes. Not to mention the water inside his boots, they obviously are water-proof enough not to let the rain drain off; just to mention something positive also._

 _He really hopes his saddlebags with the change of clothes will withstand the constant rain. His most burning desire is a piece of dry cloth on his skin once they have reached their destination. Most of all dry smallclothes, because while riding the wet fabric chafes on his legs and on other places and gradually he doesn't know how to stay in the saddle anymore._

 _The streets are rain-drenched, too, and the myriad of hooves of their horses isn't helping their condition. Every step causes a squelching sound, multiplied by their numbers, and Aramis notices they are slowing down. Will they even arrive today?_

" _The horses are getting tired," Marsac murmurs next to him. Or maybe he is shouting and due to the rain it reaches Aramis as a murmur._

 _He nods and looks up in an attempt to gain any indication of their platoon coming to a halt or even reaching their destination. It is useless. Although it is still early afternoon the sky is darkening and the heavy rain covers everything with a gray haze. The only thing Aramis catches sight of is more water in his eyes._

" _You look wet," Marsac states and Aramis wants to strangle him._

" _Do you know where we are?" he asks instead and Marsac shakes his head._

" _No, but I hope that we didn't miss it accidentally."_

 _Aramis doubts that. He can't imagine to miss an army of 25,000 men, even when they are spread around the besieged city._

" _Hopefully they have prepared some kind of camp for the night for us. If we need to put up the tents in this weather they'll be wet before we can even get in. Then we'll never get dry again!"_

 _Aramis can't envision to ever be dry again. He thinks of the last summer at his home, the one with Isabelle and how the sun had burned on his neck when he had walked with her through the grape-vines. It had been warm and dry then. But the thought of home doesn't really help him. It let's him remember how long this summer dates back already._

 _He could pretend that it is because of his life as a soldier. Times are uneasy since the Huguenots are on the rise again, challenging the social and political order of France. King Louis XIII wants to make sure his regency is defended at all events against this disruption, thus Aramis' missions by order of the crown are continuous and successive. So it would be easy to say that this is the reason he hasn't been home for years. But it would only be half the truth._

" _I think we are there...," Marsac rips him from his musings and stops his horse with a click of his tongue. Aramis' mare stops on her own, as if knowing that her rider wasn't paying attention._

" _I know this rain is crappy but are you sure it deserves this long a face?"_

 _Just now he notices Marsac scrutinizing him. He never has been good at hiding his mood from his friend, but he also never made the effort. And if he isn't completely wrong that is mutual._

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

 _Paris, October 1618_

 _xxxxx_

 _It had been the first day in Paris for both of them when they met in the entrance hall of Charles de Valois, the man who maintains one of the best mounted regiments of France; rumor has it that he is trying to secure a duchy from the king._

 _Aramis didn't really know why his family knew the Valois family, that information was lost during the very loud and very angry lecture of his father when he had learned that his son intended to become a soldier rather than a priest. He supposed it was one of those old war stories. His family wasn't part of the high nobility. Title and land had been given to his grandfather as acknowledgment for his achievements in the army. It was one of those stories that had been told to Aramis time and time again. Hence he was surprised that his father was so flabbergasted when he told him of his decision to become a soldier. Obviously there was a difference between past accomplishments and future battles. Although in his mind in times of religious warfare a soldiers life promised just as much possibility to uphold the catholic beliefs than that of a priest. At least this was his point in the discussion with his father, who unfortunately wouldn't hear of it. The rant ended with his father's saying that he would never allow his son "to be trampled in just any infantry regiment."_

 _And thus he was now standing in the too warm entry hall with the really ugly tapestries on the walls and too many trinkets on the tables, letter of recommendation in hand and beads of sweat on his brow, when suddenly an equally sweating young blond man entered, biting his lip nervously while looking around haltingly. His boots were dusty and while trying to wipe away the perspiration his fingers had left smudges in his face._

" _Your first time in Paris?" Aramis supposed that this sentence didn't testify his ingenuity, but his counterpart didn't seem do mind. He nodded._

" _Got lost three times. And some idiot of a wagoner almost shoved me in the Seine."_

" _I dodged one and almost made the acquaintance of the contents of a chamber pot."_

 _The blond man examined him, as if he wanted to make sure that Aramis really was spared from this experience._

" _Oh, by the way, I am Marsac," he eventually introduced himself._

" _Aramis."_


End file.
